He was reborn in the alms and arms of violence. He didn’t thrive upon icy thrones or across desolate landscape, but within the tempestuous boughs of vehemence and scorn, battles and war; where he could live, exist, sculpt, and mold the life of a weapon. Rapiers and cutlasses, knives and daggers, strewn across the canvas like a tapestry of heathen portraits – all designed, all construed, all manifested as bloody opuses. The beast sharpened his way through, a titan, a colossus, a monster, and a demon: flourishing through conflicts, campaigns, and crusades, not a King, not a sovereign, but one more bloodthirsty breath of Lucifer rampaging along the street. While the suffering timbres roared through the dais, while the landscape bolstered burning fringes and horrific acrimony, he plunged further into contentment, satisfaction, and decay, gratified by terror, by persecution, by wicked, devious, corrupting actions. His blood blistered, his muscles coiled, his body hummed with the hymn of disaster and upheaval; as Gods became unleashed and bedlam reigned, he was a pinnacle of ruin and oblivion, the hollowed reaches of Mephistopheles’ power and condemnation, too forsaken, too damned. The Reaper was a part of the fire, a part of scythes, a part of chaos and control and every little nefarious bit in between – where the bestial urges lurked and the loathing, abhorrent yearnings curled, where the intensity of survival outweighed the mutinous barbs of fear and flight.
There were brief moments of lordly prowess amidst the abyss of decay and rapture – his eyes judged the sidelines, the glimmering snippets of his people, his comrades, and those once known and left behind – Mauja, burning but fighting, Tiamat, the sea healer, astute and mending, Enna – suddenly knocked out of the fray (and there was a chance, a snippet, where he would have gone and massacred whomever or whatever came near – but another gray stag stood in her stead, and the Reaper – useful for only murder, only mayhem, could do naught else for her…). In a bout of clarity, in a vision of severity, the brutal scabbard, the maelstrom, the agent of chaos, lunged across the perimeter, reaching and reaching and reaching for the stricken Mender. Only upon advancing, growing closer to her fallen frame did he cease his course of collision, nodding briefly to Ciceron, and setting up the notion of defense. Like a beacon of annihilation, he reclaimed his namesake, his title, his debauched, contorted reason for existence: calling the whims and wickedness of his deadly, dreadful magic, allowing it to spread out like a molten, brewing phantom. On silent waves it slithered and crawled towards the haunted reaches, aiming to hinder those who would dare come near the fallen Mender, and hopefully intertwining with the limbs of the tiger.
He didn’t even stop to think about how much he’d changed in a series of seconds.
[Team Earth/Defend My People. Seeing Enna fallen, he goes towards her and Ciceron, intending to defend. From his standpoint in front of them, he uses his death magic towards anyone threatening/the tiger.]
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SWP :: Blunt Little Instruments (Part II)
